


Counting Paths

by MadrigalP



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar won, Dickon was a ward of Ned Stark, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon is not the prince who was promised, Jonsa babies - Freeform, Mild Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Female Character, Queen Lyanna Stark, Sansa is Not Naive, Sister-Sister Relationship, innocent first love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-12-24 21:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12021606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadrigalP/pseuds/MadrigalP
Summary: Sansa never wanted to be Princess of Dragonstone, she wanted to marry Dickon Tarly and give him beautiful blonde hair children but fate had other plans for the eldest daughter of House Stark.





	1. Northern Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dickon is Ned Stark's ward, he grew up with the Stark children

The raven arrives a fortnight before her sixteenth nameday. Sansa doesn't need to ask to know she is finally being summoned to King's Landing.

 _Dark wings, dark words_.

Dickon, her father's ward could barely meet her eyes when Lord Stark announced before all that arrangements must be made for their travels south.

“Sansa is going to marry our cousin Jon,” Bran says to Dickon over supper, as though their father’s ward didn't know already. “She is going to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Jon promised that I could join their Kingsguard when I come of age.”

Perhaps in another life, Sansa of House Stark wanted to be Queen. This Sansa wants nothing more than to wed Dickon Tarly beneath the weirwood tree where they first kissed and give him beautiful blonde haired children.

“Please, there is nothing I want more!” She pleaded with her mother after supper. Lady Stark sighed heavily as she placed her knitting down and rose from her chair beside the hearth to face her eldest daughter.

“Dickon is Lord Tarly’s second son, he will never be Lord of Horn Hill.” Her mother continued, “You were _raised_ to be Queen, I fear you will not adapt well to life as a Knight's wife.”

“I love _him_!” Sansa cried, surely her mother would understand. Was she not forced to marry a man she did not love?

“Family, Duty, Honor,” Lady Stark recites House Tully words sternly, “You are just as much Tully as you are Stark, and your first duty will always be to your family. I did not love your father, I did my duty to my House and I grew to love him over the years as you will grow to love the Crown Prince.”

“No one has ever asked me if I _want_ to be his Queen!”

Catelyn’s face softens as she reaches out and wipes away the tears from Sansa’s cheeks. “My sweet girl, we don’t always get what we want.”

* * *

 

Sansa finds Dickon in the godswood. He smiles as she approaches and Sansa’s stomach flutters at his wide smile, the smile he has only for her.

She sits beside him, their shoulders brushing against each other and for a moment she takes in the peaceful quietness of the godswood.

 _Does King’s Landing have a godswood_ , she wonders? Though once she heard her father say the Old Gods do not travel so far south. 

“I am to return to Horn Hill with my father after your wedding,” Dickon says, and Sansa turns to him. She wants to be happy for him, but a selfish part of her knows that she may never see him again.

She thinks of her aunt the Queen who defied her family and married the man she loved. _How many tens of thousands had to die because my aunt ran off with a Targaryen Prince_?

Would Jon raise an army against Dickon like Robert Baratheon? She doubts the Crown Prince would even care. Sansa noticed how his grey Stark eyes always strayed to the silver haired Princess who had accompanied him during his last visit to Winterfell.  

“I don't want to marry him,” She suddenly whispers, they never mention Jon by name when they are together. Dickon admires the Crown Prince, there was even a time where he wanted to become a Knight in Jon's Kingsguard like Bran and then he learned Sansa would become Jon's Queen and those talks soon diminished.

Dickon takes her hand and brushes his thumb against her knuckles and Sansa shivers at his touch.

His green eyes meet her Tully blue,"I don't want you to marry him either, but our paths have already been chosen for us." 

 _Yes_ , she thinks, _I am to be a little bird locked in a cage and you will become a valiant knight that the bards will sing songs of_. 

They depart Winterfell after a moon's turn. Robb and his Frey wife remain behind, as there should always be a Stark in Winterfell.

"Next time we see each other, you will be the Princess of Dragonstone." Her brother smiles and places his hand against her cheek. Sansa has heard tales of girls who are married off and never return home. She savours her brother's hug and holds her head high as her chin trembles when he helps her upon her horse.

Before Winterfell disappears, as they travel farther down the Kingsroad, Sansa slows her horse down and she looks back at the only home she has ever known. _I am the blood of Winterfell_ , she thinks, _I will always be stronger within the walls of Winterfell but I will endure this path I must follow_. She blinks her tears away as she grips the leather reins and kicks her heels for the horse to move forward. 

Dickon has not spoken to her since their conversation in the godswood, they had agreed it will only be harder for them when they reach King's Landing though Sansa notices it does not stop him from watching her. She misses him dearly and they have not yet parted their separate ways. She misses listening to his laugh, hearing his thoughts but most of all she misses his touch. 

"Why are you so sad?" Arya asked when they stopped at an inn, she was laying on her belly watching as Sansa brushed her hair. They were a fortnight away from the Crownlands. "You are going to be a Princess and Jon won't make you wear dresses."

Sansa smiles at her sister's words. "No, I suppose he wouldn't care if I decided to wear breeches."

"Is it about Dickon?" 

Sansa's Tully eyes meet her sister's Stark grey and her smile fades. 

"I saw you in the godswood with him, you were kissing him." 

Her mouth opens and closes, she doesn't know what to say to Arya. 

"Mother knows, she watches you like a hawk anytime you are near Dickon." 

"I-I care for him," Sansa watches as her sister rises to a sitting position on the featherbed and rolls her eyes. 

"You love him," Arya states, a matter of factly.

"I am to marry Jon," Sansa responds, she turns away and takes a slow steady breath before she continues, “It does not matter if I love Dickon or not, I have a duty to our family, to Jon.”

She is sure that if she keeps saying it, she will eventually start to believe it. 

Arya gets off the featherbed to stand behind her sister, Sansa wants to tell her to leave her alone, to go away but her younger sister surprises her when she wraps her small bony arms around her and presses her cheek against Sansa’s.

“I wish you could marry the man you love, but maybe you will love Jon one day like mother and father grew to love one another.”

The Stark sisters have never been close, their father likes to say they are as different as the moon and the sun, yet Sansa has never felt more close to her sister than she did at this very moment.

 

* * *

 

When they ride through the gates of the Red Keep, the Queen and her son are there to greet them. Lyanna hugs her brother fiercely as Jon helps his betrothed down from her horse.

“My Lady,” The Prince's hands fall slowly from her hips and Sansa glances toward Dickon, his jaw clenched as he tries not to look their way.

“My Prince,” She curtseys and Jon gives her a slight nod before he turns to greet Bran and Arya. Sansa notices that her betrothed is even more handsome since the last she saw him in Winterfell, his black hair has grown longer and he has a light stubble around his chin. He is dressed in the colours of House Stark, grey and white. If Sansa remembers correctly, he will be nearing his nine and tenth nameday soon.

“Is it true there are dragon skulls beneath the Red Keep,” She can hear Bran excitedly ask their cousin. “Are we allowed to see them?”

Sansa looks around the courtyard, her eyes taking in her new home. She wonders how the King can bare living within this keep. Everyone knows the gruesome tale of Elia Martell and her Targaryen children. _Has Jon ever wondered about his sister, the little Princess Rhaenys who walked these red halls before him_?

"Sansa," The Queen calls to her, and Ned Stark's eldest daughter sinks into a curtsey for her aunt. Lyanna is dressed in her husband's colours, a beautiful lace gown of black and red. Her black hair so similar to Arya's hangs heavy and loose against her back, a northern style Sansa herself favours. "When Jon returned from Winterfell, he had said you had grown more beautiful since the last we saw you. My son has never spoken words so true." 

"Thank you, Your Grace," Sansa feels her cheeks flush, and from the corner of her eye, she also sees Jon flush at his mother's words. 

A feast is thrown in honour of their arrival. The Great Hall is loud with talk and laughter, the servants rushing around to make sure every Lord's cup is filled with ale. Sansa is dressed in a southron gown of dark ruby, black and silver lace, the colours of House Targaryen. The King himself had gifted it to her and Sansa was honoured by his generosity.  

She is seated at the high table beside the Crown Prince, though her eyes keep trailing over to Dickon who is seated with her family, he remains pale and stone-faced, never glancing her way and she wants to scream at him. _You wanted us to follow our paths, Jon is my path_! Instead, she turns to the Prince to ask if he is need of more ale but the words never passed her lips as she is met with his hard stare. His cheeks are flushed and his grey eyes are like cold steel and Sansa realises as he glances past her, to her family's table that he had been watching her long for another man. 

King Rhaegar rises, and the Great Hall grows quiet for their silver haired King. Jon looks away from her and Sansa's cheeks flush in embarrassment as she looks down at the food that was placed in front of her. "A toast," the King says, "To my son the Crown Prince and his northern bride, the Lady Sansa!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfic in years, so please be nice to me!


	2. Princess of Dragonstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments and kudos!  
> Just a warning....  
> I didn't mean to write that little bit of smut, it just happened.

Standing in the empty throne room with her newly sworn shield, Ser Barristan, Sansa wonders how any man could want to sit on that monstrous chair. They say a thousand swords, along with the sword of Torrhen Stark, the King who Knelt were used to forge the Iron Throne.

 _Jon will look small_ , she thinks, _any man will look small sitting upon the Iron Throne_.

Her grandfather and uncle were burned alive in this very room while the Mad King sat on the Iron Throne. They say Queen Lyanna refuses to sit beside her husband when he presides over the court. They say the Queen refuses to even enter the throne room and Sansa does not blame her. There is a cold hollowness in this room, even with the dragon skulls gone and replaced with the new banners of House Targaryen, a black dragon and direwolf facing each other to show a newly unified reign, so many horrors have stained these walls and floors to never be forgotten. The innocent men, women, and children who lost their lives because of the madness of Aerys II.

 _Jaime Lannister did the kingdoms a favour by stabbing the Mad King_ ,  _and he got his head cut off because of it_.

"How much longer until the small council finishes?" Sansa asks her sworn shield. She does not want to be in this room any longer than she has to be. Jon had sent his squire to request she meet him here after his meeting with the small council. She has not spoken to her betrothed since the feast and they are to wed in the Great Sept of Baelor on the morrow.

"I shall think soon, My Lady," The Knight responds as the doors to the left open and the members of the small council walk out. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard bows stiffly to her and Sansa nods her head respectfully to him and the King's Hand, Jon Connington.

"My Lady," A man she does not recognise walks toward her. He is smiling, though the smile does not reach his greyish green eyes.

"My Lord..."

"Baelish the Master of Coins, My Lady," Ser Barristan finishes for her and Sansa glanced over her shoulder to smile at the knight.

"Thank you, Ser Barristan,"

"I know your mother well," Lord Baelish is a short man with a pointy beard, Sansa finds herself looking down at the Master of Coins as he speaks, "I was a ward of the Lord of Riverrun, Cate and I grew up together."

"I am sure my mother will be pleased to see you once more, My Lord," Sansa says respectfully, behind Baelish, she sees Jon is the last to walk out of the small council chamber.

"You are the spitting image of her," The Master of Coins whispers more to himself than her, Sansa's brows furrow at his words. She has been told countless times she has her mother's looks with her high cheekbones, Tully eyes and thick auburn hair. Sansa would normally marvel at the compliment but hearing Lord Baelish compare her to her mother makes her feel uncomfortable in his presence.

"You are very kind, My Lord but I must now greet my betrothed." Sansa once heard her father tell Robb that anything before the word _but_ is horseshit.

"Of course," Lord Baelish bows to her as she walks past him to meet Jon halfway. Sansa has never been more relieved to see him.

"Ser Barristan, you may leave us," The Prince does not ask, he commands her sworn shield and Sansa watches as the doors to the throne room are closed behind the knight of the Kingsguard. She turns back to Jon to see he is watching her, his eyes intensely studying her. They are the only two left in the throne room.

"My Prince," Sansa lifts her chin, Arya likes to say she does that when she's trying to be strong.

"Only Jon," He says, which surprises her, "I shall like to call you Sansa."

"I shall like that as well, Jon" She gives him a small smile which he doesn't return. Sansa shifts uncomfortably under his grey eyes, silently thinking she was better off having that conversation with Lord Baelish.

"Do you wish to marry me, Sansa?" Jon's face is inexpressive, as it always is when he's near her. Sansa's brow furrows in confusion.

"Do you wish to marry _me_?"

Jon swallows thickly, "We have been betrothed since we were children, I have come to terms with my father's decision."

"As have I," Sansa responds and Jon rolls his eyes.

"Have you?"

Her eyes narrow and her mouth opens and closes as she carefully considers her next words, Sansa realises she is breathing heavily, "What are you truly asking?"

"I thought it was obvious," Jon responds, haughty. 

"I'm afraid, _My Prince_ ," Sansa is seething, "you are going to have to be a bit _more_ obvious." 

Jon sighs heavily and looks away from her, almost like he is embarrassed to ask. "Do you love him?"

She throws her hands up, "What does that have to do with anything!"

She is Lord Eddard Stark's eldest daughter, her father is the most honourable man in the Seven Kingdoms. She would never do anything that would imperil her own honour.

"It has to do with _everything_!" His voice rises, and her heart is thumping maddeningly against her chest. Jon takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he turns back to her, Sansa thinks the only thing obvious is the tension between them. His voice is softer, "We need to be able to trust each other, you are not just marrying me in the Great Sept of Baelor, you are marrying the Iron Throne." 

He looks around the throne room, almost defeated, "I have so many enemies, my _own_ uncle Viserys will scheme to unseat me the moment my back is turned from him. I need to be able to trust my _wife_."

His eyes are heavy and he is no longer looking at her in a guarded way. It's the first time Sansa has been allowed to truly understand him. _He is alone in this game of thrones_. No siblings to support him, a mother who is disfavored by the realm as Queen but beloved by the smallfolk. It is Sansa and her relations to the north that will help keep his claim once his father is dead. There was a reason she was chosen to be his wife, his Queen. 

 _Love didn't just happen for your father and_ _I_ , her mother had told her,  _we built it slowly over the years_ ,  _stone by stone_... _It's not as exciting as secret passion in the godwoods, but it is stronger, it lasts longer._

"I do love Dickon," She whispers, and Jon exhales. There is no anger on his face, only acceptance. He gives her a slight nod before he moves to walk past her, most likely to go to his father to end their betrothal but Sansa grabs his arm to stop him. "Please, listen to me." 

He looks down at her hand on his arm before his hooded eyes slowly move up to her face. 

"I want _us_ to be able to trust each other, as well."

* * *

They marry in the Great Sept of Baelor, Sansa dressed in a beautifully embroidered gown of ivory samite and Myrish lace. Jon in a black tunic with intricate red detailing. As the High Septon presides over the ceremony, Sansa glances at Jon and the smile he gives her is almost breathtaking.  

Her father removes her grey and white maiden's cloak, his hand squeezing her shoulder gently before he moves back to allow Jon to place his red and black cloak of House Targaryen upon her shoulders, the High Septon stating she has now passed from her father's protection into her husband's protection. 

They both speak, "with this kiss, I pledge my love." 

Sansa's eyes fluttered closed as Jon leans over and presses his lips softly against hers, a sweet kiss before all the lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms. 

"And now as man and wife," The High Septon declares, "they are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever." 

Sansa knows she shouldn't, but she cannot help but glance at Dickon as he sits stone-faced beside Arya, staring down at his hands. 

* * *

As they stand on the steps to the Great Sept of Baelor as man and wife, Sansa's hand upon her husband's arm, they smile to the throng of people who have gathered around to cheer loudly for the royal family.

"You will make a good Queen," Lyanna comes to stand beside them, it is the first time Sansa has seen her aunt wear her golden crown and it looks as though it is swallowing her. Lyanna looks drawn and each passing day she grows paler. The court whispers that her aunt is dying, Sansa doesn't know how to ask Jon if those whispers are true.

"I shall be as good a Queen as you, Your Grace," Sansa promises, and Lyanna smiles, a smile that doesn't reach her tired eyes. 

"You will be a better Queen than I."

* * *

The wedding feast is a grand affair. Bran is her dancing partner, Jon had murmured he did not wish to make a fool of himself and Queen Lyanna agreed that her son was not as graceful with dancing as he is with his swordplay. Sansa loves to dance and she happily allows her younger brother to twirl her gracefully about the floor. 

"May I have this dance, Your Highness," Sansa turns, her smile fading when she meets the leaf green eyes of Dickon Tarly, his hand extending toward her. 

She glances toward Jon who is speaking with her father and when she looks back at Dickon, he looks wounded at her hesitation. 

"I can't," She says, pleading with her eyes for him to understand. _Our paths have already been chosen for us_. Those were his words. 

Sansa feels her chest tightening as Dickon takes her hands and bows his head to place a kiss upon them. He lets her go and with one last sorrowful look turns swiftly away from her. She watches him walk away with tears stinging her eyes. 

Arya will tell her later that Dickon had left King's Landing that night and ridden to Horn Hill. 

The bedding ceremony was horrible as men ripped at her pretty dress and spoke such vile things to her, words a Lady should never repeat. They carried her to Jon's chambers. By the time she was thrown on the featherbed, she was only in her shift and Jon, red-faced was left in only his breeches. 

"Have you lain with a woman before?" She asks her husband once they are alone and Jon nods, "Was it Daenerys?" 

She had noticed that the King's sister was not among the lords and ladies who had come to see them marry. 

"Dany?" His face scrunches in disgust, "She is my aunt, and happily married to Willas Tyrell." 

Sansa feels her face flush in embarrassment, "I thought- when you were last in Winterfell, you could not keep your eyes off of her." 

"Visiting Winterfell was the happiest I had seen her, before marrying Willas. She had to live under the cruelty of my uncle for so long." 

When Jon introduced her to his uncle, the Lord of Storm's End, Viserys had regarded her with disinterest. Though he shared the same silver hair and lilac eyes, Viserys looked nothing like the King his brother. His face was more gaunt and there was no kindness in his eyes. He held himself as though he was more superior than everyone else. Sansa does not know how his Dornish wife could stand being near him. 

Jon sits beside her on the featherbed, she feels the heat of his body as his naked shoulder brushes against her's. 

"Is there anything else you will like to know?" He whispers, their eyes meet briefly before his gaze lowers to her lips. It is Sansa who leans forward, Sansa who kisses him first but it is Jon who deepens the kiss. 

It is not like the chaste kiss he had given her in the Great Sept of Baelor, Sansa has never been kissed this way, with such passion that he leaves her breathless when he gently pushes her down on the featherbed, she obliges, her chest rising and falling heavily as he climbs over her. Jon gazes down at her in wonderment, it's not the look of love, Sansa is not a fool but she knows if they continue this way, it won't be hard for them to find that path together. 

Her mother told her it would hurt, that Jon would try to be gentle but to expect pain none the less. Her mother could not be more wrong, Jon is sweet and gentle and warmth radiates her body when they are truly joined as one. 

* * *

As Sansa's stomach began to swell that first year of her marriage, the Queen's health began to fade. Lyanna could barely speak five words before she was interrupted by a fit of coughs, always ending with a blood stained cloth held to her mouth. Some days she can barely sip the broth that is placed before her, other days she is not strong enough to rise from her great featherbed. On those days, Sansa always goes to the Queen's chambers. 

Some days, she sings the song of Florian the Fool and Jonquil, other days they sew clothes together for the babe and discuss suitable names for the future Prince of Summerhall. 

"Jon and I were discussing Brandon if it's a boy," Sansa hesitates, her good mother has already disliked their first choice of name, Aegon. She looks to the Queen to see that there are tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips. 

"Brandon," She whispers, and Sansa can tell by her far away look that she is thinking of the brother she lost so long ago. "It is a good strong name." 

On the day Measter Pycelle tells her she has another two moons left before her child can be brought safely into the world, Sansa wakes from a sharp pain in a bed of blood. Jon is not with her, he is away in the Stormlands, she screams for Ser Barristan who is outside her chamber door. The knight bursts through her chambers, sword in hand. He drops it when he sees his Princess in her bed of blood, tears in her eyes. He scoops her up in her bloody night shift and carries her all the way to Measter Pycelle and Sansa labours for an entire day to bring her child into the world with Lyanna holding her hand and pressing kisses against her sweaty head.

She doesn't cry out for Jon, she cries for her mother, so far away north. She needs her mother's strength. 

When Jon's son is brought into the world, he does not make a sound. 

Measter Pycelle gives her a sorrowful look as Lyanna lays her tiny grandson against his mother's chest. Sansa covers her mouth, she wants to scream, demand why the gods are so cruel but they told her she has only a few precious moments left with her boy. She swallows her pain, places a gentle kiss on his forehead and stroked a finger along his little body until he breaths his last breath. 

* * *

For days now she has laid in her featherbed, her heart aching for the child she lost. She has cried so many tears, she is not sure she has any left to shed. When the door to her chambers open, she knows it is Jon, no one else will dare disturb her mourning. She closes her eyes and pretends to sleep. 

She does not wish to speak of their lost, not yet, not until this pain dulls. She knows the pain from a loss of a child will never go away, it will always follow her but it will get better, it has to get better. Sansa does not know if she can survive this pain if does not.

She feels the featherbed dip beside her, feels Jon's fingers brushing her auburn hair from her face before he brushes a kiss against her temple. He moves away. She hears the rustling of clothes as he takes off his cloak and tunic. He lays on the featherbed beside her, buries his face in her hair as he wraps his arm around her, holding her close to him. 

* * *

 A year passes, and the pain does dull but it never goes away. There is always an ache in her heart when she sees a mother carrying a newborn babe or she comes across the clothing she had sewed together with the Queen for her son. She does not know how to tell her husband what her heart truly wants. 

"You have to let him be there for you," Her good-mother had lectured soon after Brandon was laid to rest in the Great Sept of Baelor, "and you have to be there for him."

Jon has barely touched her since they lost their son. Thrice he has come to her bed since and thrice he is always careful to spill his seed against her belly or leg. At first, Sansa was relieved her husband did not wish to share her bed, but now she aches for the feel of a newborn babe in her arms. 

Jon will say she wishes to replace Brandon, that is what he said the last night he had come to her chambers when she gripped his hips and whispered for him to spill his seed inside her. Jon had stilled and Sansa will never forget the look he gave her as he rolled away from her to sit at the edge of the featherbed. 

"I-I'm sorry," His face was in his hands, he could barely look at her. "It's too soon to replace him, Sansa." 

He hasn't returned to her bed since.

Daenerys returns to court as the Grand Measter gives the Queen a fortnight to live. She brings her son, Luthor who takes after his father with his brown curls and beautiful green eyes and Sansa wonders if her own son would have taken after Jon or would he have had his mother's Tully colouring. 

While Daenerys sits beside the Queen's bed, Sansa plays with Luthor in the gardens. It is where Jon finds her, flowers in her hair as she chases the future Lord of Highgarden. He laughs as he watches them, and Sansa's heart flutters at the sound. She has not realised how long it has been since she's heard that sound. He has had much upon his shoulders as of late that Sansa wishes she could help unburden him. 

 "You are good with him," He says, his voice gruff and Sansa gives a small smile as she pulls a leaf from Luthor's curls. 

"Brandon would be a year younger than him," She says more to herself than her husband, but when she glances back at him, he has a pinched face and a far away look in his eyes. 

* * *

The Queen's family is with her when she passes, King Rhaegar on one side holding her hand and their son on the other. Sansa stands behind Jon, tears in her eyes as she watches her good-mother take her final breath and apart of Sansa is relieved that the Queen is no longer in pain. 

They lay her to rest in the Great Sept of Baelor beside her grandson, Prince Brandon. Sansa is dressed in a simple black gown of mourning as she stands beside her husband, listening to the High Septon's prayers. 

Jon is solemn as they receive the condolences of both nobles and smallfolks, the King does not even leave the Red Keep for the final ceremony, he does not even leave his chambers. Sansa is the one to give their thanks, she holds her head high as her mother taught her and does her duty to Lyanna, does her duty to Jon. 

After, as the sun sets and Jon does not come to her, Sansa goes to him. _You have to let him be there for you, and you have to be there for him_.

He is seated on the edge of his featherbed, his eyes red from his tears and Sansa reaches out to wipe them away, her hand stroking his cheek and his eyes closed at her touch. 

"Jon," She whispers his name, bending down to graze her lips against his forehead, his cheek, she brushes her lips against the corner of his mouth, "Let me help you." 

"Sansa," He murmurs, but she leans forward and presses her lips against his to silence his thoughts. Her lips part against his and his tongue leaves her breathless. She has missed being this close to him, missed his touch entirely. His hands reach out to cup her face as he pulls her closer, his mouth harder against hers but Sansa pulls away. They are both panting heavily as their eyes meet. 

She stands up to tug at the ties of her dress, allowing it to fall at her feet in a puddle as she stands in nothing but her shift. Jon rises, slowly as his eyes never waver from her gaze. She steps closer to him, brushing her chest against his.

"Let me love you," She mutters against his lips, and Jon's arms tighten around her as his lips crash down against hers. 

He kisses her between her legs first, Sansa's face flushed as he licks her centre. It takes a few moments, a few licks before she starts to moan and move her hips against his mouth. Jon holds her down, his tongue forceful as it moves over her and when he finds that spot that brings fire to her belly, Sansa buries her fingers in his dark curls and cries out his name. 

He moves up her body, that same look of wonderment he had in his eyes on their wedding night and Sansa finds herself breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling as he leans over her, holding his weight on his elbows.  

"I love you," He whispers, the adoration so adamant that it brings tears to Sansa's eyes. _We built it slowly, stone by stone_. 

They begin slowly, his hips rolling against her spread thighs. His mouth finds her nipple and the other breast is cradled by his calloused palm. Sansa finds herself gasping and arching her hips to meet his thrusts. She can feel that warmth begin to rise in her belly, that pleasure that only he can ignite. He pushes her knees up higher. He is almost there, from the way his fingers dig painfully into her hip and so is she, again.

Jon buries his face in her neck and Sansa bites down on his shoulder to muffle her moans, as his hips move faster, snapping more forcefully against hers. 

She cries out, something inside her snapping and a wave of pleasure washes over her. Jon peaks soon after her, rolling off her, her thighs wet with his seed. 

They lie exhausted, side by side. Sansa reaches over, takes his hand and brings it to her lips and places three kisses against the palm of his hand. _I love you_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is pretty fast paced, I only have a total of four chapters in mind.  
> Also, Dickon will return!


	3. Mother of the Dragon and the Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments and kudos on the last chapter!

It had taken many years after Brandon for her womb to quicken. The former Grand Maester Pycelle had sworn on the Seven that she was barren. He had proposed the Crown Prince to seek an annulment, even went so far to say the gods were displeased with her marriage and as punishment making her barren.

It had taken both Ser Arthur Dayne and the King’s Hand to pry her husband away from the Maester and Sansa did not feel any remorse when the King dismissed the vile man.

Grand Maester Agravaine was sent from the Citadel after. An elderly man with loose folds of skin and kind deep-set eyes, he had taken Sansa’s hand and apologized for the pressure she must be dealing with. He advised she go to Dragonstone, away from court whispers and expectations.

It did not take long for her womb to quicken again.

Their eldest, Lyanna has her father's long face and Sansa's Tully looks, thick auburn hair and bright blue eyes. Already nearing her ninth name-day, Lya is a sweet and thoughtful child. She spends her days as her grandfather’s shadow, sitting near his feet as he presides over the court, following him on his daily walks through the royal gardens. King Rhaegar had even taken it upon himself to teach her eldest daughter to read and write.

“He is preparing her,” Jon had once said, “Should we not have another son, Lya will be Queen after me.”

“Viserys is your uncle, would the throne not just pass to him or any son of his?”

Jon looked at her, horrified at her words, “Seven help the realm if Viserys or any son of his sits upon the Iron Throne.”

Sansa would rather her sweet girl rule over some Lord’s castle then become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. There is always a price to pay when you venture too close to the Iron Throne, Sansa knows that better than anyone.

Their youngest, Minisa or as Jon likes to affectionately call her “his little wolf,” has her mother’s heart-shaped face, but is her father's child through and through with his dark unruly hair and greyish eyes.

Sansa does not think there has ever been a more willful child.

At the tender age of six, Minisa already had her father wrapped entirely around her little finger and Jon always indulges his girls, which displeases Sansa greatly.

“It is only a wooden sword,” He had tried to reason with her, “Arya was of a similar age when your father allowed her to practice.”

“Arya was nine,” Sansa responded, but it did not matter for the next day she found her daughter in the courtyard whacking a wooden sword against the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Her daughters love their mother, Sansa does not doubt that but it is Jon they adore, Jon they seek for comfort when they have fallen and scratched themselves.

"You spoil them far too much," She tried to chastise him, but her husband only gave her a wolfish grin.

"They deserve to be spoiled, my love" He replies, his eyes always brightening at the mention of his girls. "They're our blessings from the gods."  

She is truly blessed by the Seven and the Old Gods with her daughters, she is truly blessed to have any child. Brandon would be nearing his third and tenth name-day had he lived. In Sansa’s dreams, her son had grown to have the Stark looks, a long face, dark hair, the very image of his father but it is always Sansa's bright blue eyes that gaze back at her.

There is not a day that goes by that she does not think of him, of the man Jon would have raised him to be had the gods not seen fit to take her boy, her only boy away.  

Sansa and her girls go to the Sept each day after their lessons with their Septa, together they light a candle for their brother, the prince who will never be.

 

* * *

It is only when the sunsets and the girls are settled into their beds that Sansa is ever truly alone with her husband. Even after so many years of marriage, his touch still brings fire to her skin, his mouth a pleasure she can never describe.

Her husband has aged somewhat over the years, his beard thicker and sometimes when Sansa strokes her fingers through his dark curly hair as he lays his head in her lap after their coupling, she is pained by the silver threads she finds there.

Sansa herself has changed since birthing her children. Her breasts are fuller, her hips wider, and the skin around her belly still bear the marks of accommodating each of Jon’s children. He does not seem to mind, he kisses each of the pinkish scars and whispers against her skin that she is more beautiful than she was the day they wed in the Great Sept of Baelor.

She knows Jon is happy, that their daughters bring him so much joy but she often wonders if a son, a little boy with her auburn hair and his greyish eyes will make him even happier.

It does not matter, Jon will never tell her if he wishes for a son. The Grand Maester told them after Minisa's trying birth that Sansa's womb will never quicken again.

 

* * *

  
"Grandfather says I must now learn how to handle a sword," Lya announces one evening as Sansa sews a stitch into the binding of one of Minisa's breeches. "He says it is expected of the Dragon's heir."

As a girl, Sansa always dreamed of having sons who would grow to be gallant and noble like Ser Aemon the Dragonknight and daughters who would be the perfect little ladies. She promised herself that her daughters would be nothing like her wild little sister, they would never wear breeches and never know how to handle a sword but alas, she has two little girls that remind her so much of Arya that she would not have it any other way.

"What do you want to do?" Sansa questions, Lya blinks and her brow furrows as though it hasn't occurred to her what she wants.

"You do not have to do as your grandfather says," Jon looks up from the raven scroll he was reading, they often try to spend time in her solar after supper with the girls. "As Queen, you can command the Lord Commander of your Queensguard to lead your men into battle."

"Can I be apart of Lya's Queensguard?" Minisa asks from her spot near Sansa's feet, she is reading _Ten Thousand Ships_ , a book about the warrior Queen Nymeria. Arya had sent the book to her as a name-day gift. "I can become a knight like Brienne of Tarth!"

Jon smiles affectionately at their youngest. "A brave and noble knight you will be, my little wolf."

"Did you want to learn?" Lya sits on the edge of her father's chair and Jon turns to peer up at her. Minisa has her father's looks but it is Lya who has her father's quiet, observant demeanour.

"No," He admits honestly, "but I did learn because it was expected of me."

"As Queen, how can I ask men to die for me, if I will not stand beside them like you and grandfather?" Her gaze on her father does not waver as she waits for his response, Jon stares up at their daughter in admiration.

"I want you to do what pleases you," He reaches out and touches her cheek gently, "I shall make this realm a better place before the crown rests atop of your head, I promise."

"You shouldn't make such promises, papa." Lya chastises, sometimes Sansa thinks her eldest daughter is far too wise for her small self.

"Aye," Jon agrees, "but I will always keep my promises to you, my wolf."

Lya scrunches her face at the endearment. "Papa, I am no wolf, I am a dragon."

Jon barks out a laugh, the corner of his eyes crinkling. "And what a Dragon Queen you shall be."

* * *

On Lya's twelfth name-day she is given a dragon egg, red with golden flecks and black whorls. It is such a strange gift to Sansa, but her daughter's face explodes with joy and she kisses her grandfather's cheek in gratitude.

Minisa leans over to Sansa and whispers, "I hope grandfather doesn't give me one of those for my name-day, can you tell him I want a real sword?"

"Hush," She whispers back, her eyes never wavering from her eldest.

It takes both hands for the Princess of Summerhall to hold the dragon egg up to eye level, and Lya studies the egg in fascination.

Once Maester Luwin told Sansa of a saying, and she is not sure why after all these years those words come back to her as she watches her daughter, sees the fire dancing behind her bright blue eyes.

_Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin._

* * *

They travel the Kingsroad for Bran's wedding to Lord Manderly of White Harbor's granddaughter. Her brother, already a man grown will become a lord of his own keep in the New Gift, he will father children and serve as a loyal bannerman to their father and when the time comes, he will serve Robb.

Arya is already married to Harrion Karstark, Sansa had wanted to return to see her sister wed before the heart tree in the godswood of Winterfell, but her belly was already swelling with Lya, and Jon did not want to risk their unborn child by travelling so far north.

Rickon, her sweet and wild little brother will join the Night's Watch like their Uncle Benjen. Sansa is glad she can see him before he sets off on his journey to the Wall.

It takes their party an entire month to travel to Winterfell, the girls do not seem to mind the travelling. Some days, they ride their ponies with Sansa beside them on the white Sand Steed her husband had gifted her, other days they ride in the wheelhouse.

"Lya, come keep warm beside me." Her eldest sits across from her, holding the dragon egg she takes everywhere with her. Minisa had chosen to ride with Jon at the front of the party. They are only a day's ride away from Winterfell.

"I am fine," Lya assures her, "my dragon egg keeps my hands warm."

It is not the first time her eldest had said such a thing. Once, Sansa laid her own hand upon the tiny scales of the dragon egg and she only felt a cold hollowness.

The wheelhouse comes to an abrupt halt, and Sansa can hear men shouting for an archer.

Tugging her furs tighter against herself as she steps out of the wheelhouse and stops the first person she sees.

"What is happening?"

"A direwolf, Your Highness" Sansa recognises the lad as Ser Barristan's squire, Rollam.

 _A direwolf so far south?_ Walking toward the front of the party, her dress dragging against the mud she sees Jon leaning over the large dead beast who is blocking their path and Minisa, her fearless daughter standing beside him.

"What is that?" She questions when she sees the small bundle of white fur tucked in her daughter's arms. Minisa gives her a wolfish grin.

"Father says it's a direwolf," Sansa watches as the pup nuzzles its wet snout against her daughter's face. "Her pack must have left her."

"What was the beast doing so far south?" Jon wonders aloud, brushing his hands against his breeches as he rises up. Direwolves were said to be extinct south of the Wall.

Sansa glances down at the dead direwolf, as huge as Minisa's pony, it's grey fur stained red with blood.

"The pup will not survive without its mother," She affirms, and from the corner of her eye, she can see her daughter's little arms tighten more firmly around the blue-eyed pup. Sansa remembers her father's words,  _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_. "It will not survive without its pack." 

"She will," Minisa declares, sounding more like a Queen than a little girl. "I will make sure of it."

 

* * *

  
When the familiar view of Winterfell emerged, Sansa's eyes glistened with tears. _I am the blood of Winterfell_ , she thinks, _I will always be stronger within the walls of Winterfell._

She is a woman grown with children of her own, but Sansa still feels like a little girl when she is in her father's arms.

Lord Stark's dark hair is now trimmed short and grey. There are new lines upon his long solemn face, a weariness in his eyes that reminded her of Lyanna in her final years. Sansa hugs her father furiously, closing her eyes as his familiar scent surrounds her.

Her mother is still beautiful, her auburn locks, once a similar shade to Sansa's is beginning to fade to grey. Catelyn kisses both of her granddaughters and hugs her eldest daughter as furiously as Sansa hugged her father.

Robb, his Frey wife, and their army of children are the next to greet them.

As Jon hugs her brother who has grown thicker since she last saw him, his auburn beard speckled with grey, Sansa greets her good-sister who is already expecting their fifth child. She knows she shouldn't, but she feels a pang of longing as Roslin introduces her children.

"Our eldest, Eddard, Rickard, Hoster and this one " She nods down to the little brown haired girl clutching at her dress, "is our youngest Bethany."

"Such beautiful children," Sansa beams at her nephews and niece. "Lya, Minisa come say hello to your cousins."

“Is that a wolf?” Ned, the eldest of Robb's children asks Minisa who carries her pup. Jon helped her name it Argella after the Storm Queen who defied the first Targaryens.

“It’s a direwolf.”

To see her daughters with Robb's children reminds Sansa of her own childhood within the walls of Winterfell, she finds herself remembering the first time Lyanna brought Jon north, she was barely Bethany's age when she was first introduced to him.

She glanced at her husband to see he is already gazing back at her.   

They feast in the Great Hall, the children playing in the godswood. Sansa seated beside her sister is amazed at how beautiful Arya had become over the years, marriage to Harrion Karstark suited her well and though the marriage was fruitless, it did not seem to cloud over her sister.

"Did you hear Dickon is the Lord of Horn Hill?"

Sansa's smile slipped, she has not thought of Dickon in _ages_. She had loved her father's former ward as a girl, but he had chosen an honourable path and Sansa chose to do her duty to her family.

Apart of Sansa will always love Dickon, care for him, but Jon and her girls have her heart now.

"I did not know,” She says, “but I am happy for him, he deserves to be happy.”

“You would have made him happy,” Arya muses and Sansa sighs heavily.

The door to the Great Hall clashes open and the children rush in screaming. Robb stands from his seat beside their father and demands his eldest tell him what is going on, Sansa can only make out fire and godswood from little Ned’s cries.

Her eyes search amongst the children, she can see Minisa, clutching her pup with tears streaming down her face. Sansa runs to her, but Jon reaches her first.

“Where is Lya?” He questions her, his hands gripping her shoulders. “Where is your sister?”

“I told her not to do it!” Minisa cries, her little body shaking. “The fire! I told her not to do it!”

Blood drains from Jon’s face as he stumbles to his feet and rushes out of the Great Hall, her brothers and the rest of the men following.

Sansa takes Minisa into her arms, her daughter’s tears wet against her neck.

"She set the weirwood tree on fire!" Rickard, the second eldest shuddered as he spoke to his mother, "She said she dreamt it."

“Please, take her!” Sansa pleads to her mother, her heart is thumping maddeningly against her chest in fear. Her throat is starting to burn, her stomach feels as though it is tightening, and the tears are prickling her eyes.

“Go,” Catelyn demands, as soon as Minisa is safely in her arms, Sansa runs.

The smell of smoke feels her nostrils long before she reaches the burning godswood. As a child, she played there with her siblings, had her first kiss, even prayed beneath the weirwood tree to the Old Gods. The flames have reached so high that the buckets of water the men are throwing into the fire seem to only be feeding it.

“Lya!” She demands to anyone, everyone. “Where is my daughter! Where is Lya!”

“Sansa,” Bran comes to her, his face covered in black grime. She can see Jon hunched over near the entrance of the godswood, his face in his hands, his body shaking from his sobs.

“No,” She shakes her head, she refuses to believe it. Bran tries to hold her but she shoves him away forcefully and she does what the others are _not_ doing, she runs toward the flames, runs to her daughter.

 _Lya needs her_ , Sansa can’t lose her too! She won’t lose her!

Bran shouts, and it is Robb who grabs her by the waist to stop her. Sansa screams and fights him with a strength she never knew she had until he has no choice but to let her go. She falls to her knees, she can’t breathe. She places her hand against her breast, where her heart feels as though it is being stabbed continuously.

The flames dance dangerously close to her, Sansa only needs to move a few more lengths. She wants the fire to consume her, she wants to die with her little girl.

Jon's strong arms encircle around her, drawing her closer to him. He holds her, and Sansa sobs against his chest, his own tears soaking her hair as they wait the entire night for the flames to go down. 

It is only when the first ray of light appears from beneath the oncoming storm clouds, and the ground grows colder that the flames begin to die down.

There is a silence, only the thunder that rumbled far off in the distance could be heard.

Sansa still has her face buried in Jon's tunic, her skin feels tight and dry around her eyes and there is an emptiness in her soul. Her husband's arms loosen from around her as the flames start to extinguish.

"Jon," Robb calls out, "Let me go, you don't need to do this!"

"She is my daughter," Jon says hoarsely, his eyes red-rimmed from his tears. Robb nods respectively, and her husband turns to walk into what is left of the godswood, his silhouette disappearing in the smoke.

Her father kneels beside her, sorrow in his eyes as he runs his hand through her tangled hair.

“Minisa,” She croaks out, her voice as hoarse as Jon’s.

“She is with your mother in the Lord’s Chambers,” Her father answers, and Sansa looks up at the swirling sky, where dark thunderclouds piled against one another in oncoming fury, she closes her eyes as the first drop of rain touches her cheek, but when she wipes it away she thinks perhaps it is only her tears.

Sansa Stark bore three beautiful children, yet only one remains to her.

“Perhaps, you should go to her.” Her father urges and Sansa’s eyes snap toward him, and she shakes her head in disbelief.

“Not until I see Lya, not until Jon finds her.”

“Sansa, it will do you no good to see her like that.”

Suddenly there is a gasp from the crowd that has gathered, Sansa pushes her father’s hands away as she stumbles to get up. She doesn't see what they see, not at first. The last ray of sunlight escaped the approaching storm clouds and lite the path before her.

She sees him, his hand clutching their daughter’s as the smoke parts for them. Sansa feels her breath leave her at sight of her eldest daughter, draped in her father’s cloak. Her beautiful red hair is gone, she is as hairless as the day the Maester placed her in Sansa's arms but she is _safe_. She's alive!

A breeze blows up suddenly, cold on the back of Sansa’s neck as she looks from her daughter's soot-covered face to the red and gold creature that is perched atop her shoulder.

"Seven hells," She hears Arya mumble from behind her.

 _Do you believe in your Old Gods?_   Viserys had once asked her, and Sansa had told him yes and asked if he believed in the Seven.

_Like the dragons that roamed the sky hundreds of years ago, the Targaryens answer to neither gods or men._

_The dragons are dead_ , She had said it only to spite him, but now as the dragon before her screeches, Sansa believes she has never been more wrong.

The rain starts to fall, drenching them all.

The storm finally broke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally it was four chapters, but I think it will be a total of five chapters  
> Comments definitely keep me going!


	4. Prince Who Was Promised

 

 

Sansa doesn’t fear her daughter. No, she fears the red-scaled beast Lya has taken to calling Branserion after the brother she never met. The dragon screeches and flaps it wings anytime Sansa comes near that she is sure if Branserion was larger he would release his fire on her.

“He will not harm you,” Lya scratches the beast under his neck, his black eyes never wavering from Sansa. “He senses my love for you, he wants to protect you.”

Lya has kept herself locked away in the chambers she's been given, she has not even set eyes upon the damage she has done to the godswood. Sansa could see the pain in her father's eyes as he stood where the weirwood once stood, now diminished to ashes. Above them, a red comet soared the sky.

“It’s for the dragon,” said the wildling woman. Osha has been in service with the Starks since Sansa left for King’s Landing. “Red for the fire your daughter has unleashed upon the world.”

The words had sent shivers down Sansa's neck

“Silence woman,” Lord Stark snapped to the wilding and Osha bowed her head respectfully to the Lord of Winterfell.

Sansa tilted her head up to look at the comet. It’s a terrible colour, she had thought, red like blood.

_Red for the fire your daughter has unleashed upon the world._

“Why did you do it?” Sansa questions, looking away from the beast to her daughter. Even with her hair gone, Lya is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful maidens in the realm. “Why did you burn the godswood, where Starks have honoured the Old Gods for a thousand years?”

“They are not my gods.”

_Like their dragons, the Targaryens answered to neither gods nor men._

Sansa swallows thickly. Maester Luwin once told her the Targaryens always danced too close to madness but Sansa refuses to believe Lya, her sweet and gentle daughter has the same madness that sickened the mind of Aerys II.

Lya will be different. The red comet is a herald of her coming, Sansa thinks, a sign of the greatness she will bring to both House Targaryen and House Stark. Lyanna will not be like the Targaryens before her.

“The fire could have killed you,” Sansa continued, “you could have died.”

Lya turns to her mother, her brows snapped together.

"Fire cannot kill a dragon."

 

* * *

 

_She dreamt of a realm that ran red with blood._

_A realm that burned with chaos._

_She dreamt of dragons dancing._

Sansa awoke with a start, her chest rising and falling heavily as she sat up.

"What is it?" Jon murmured sleepily beside her, his hand reaching out and rubbing her back soothingly. It's what he does to the girls when they have a nightmare. She glances toward the windows, Jon had left the tapestries open to allow the coldness in and Sansa could see that the red comet still soared the sky.

"I-It's nothing," She hesitated, "It was a bad dream, that is all."

"Come here," He commands, opening his arms for Sansa to snuggle against his chest. She tucks her head under his chin and his fingers stroke through her tangled hair.

After Brandon, there were nights Sansa would awake with an ache in her chest and tears in her eyes. Jon would always hold her, his fingers stroking through her hair until her breath evened out and she was able to fall asleep again.

"Jon,"

"Hmm,"

Sansa lifts her head to look at her husband, already he is nearing his thirty-sixth nameday yet it seems when they are like this together, he still looks the boy she wed in the Great Sept of Baelor almost seventeen years prior. She was still young, if her womb was not broken she could have given him half a dozen children already, and her husband would love them all dearly.

"Make love to me," She commands softly and Jon's lips part slightly as he lets out a breath. Sansa needs her husband, needs his touch to forget, if only for this night.

When she closes her eyes, she's there again. Outside the godswood, watching the flames consume her daughter and she can do nothing, helpless as she was when she lost her first child. She needs to forget, she has to forget or she'll go mad.

Jon reaches out and tucks a loose strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, and Sansa leans forward to brush her lips against his.

Sometimes she thinks back on the girl who dreaded to marry this Prince, the girl who strongly believed she loved another. That girl seems an entirely different person.

“Did you ever think we could have this?” Sansa asks and he looks up at her with hooded eyes.

“I always knew we would have this.” He made known and her mouth curves into a smile.

"Is that so?"

"Aye," He gruffs out as his hands find her waist and he moves her over to straddle him. "I could barely keep my eyes off of you whenever you were near."

"You could barely look at me." Sansa wants to roll her eyes, but the look in Jon's eyes as he peers up at her is honest. She arches a brow instead. "I remember the day before we wed, you were going to tell your father to call off our betrothal."

"I was a jealous fool," Jon admitted, "I hated how you looked at Tarly."

"And how was that?"

Jon's eyes flickered with lust as her hand reaches between them to tug at the laces of the breeches he fell asleep in. "Like you were besotted."

"Not in love?" She asks, and his breath catches when her hand reaches into his breeches to stroke his length.

"No," He pants, when she finally pulls her hand away. Their eyes meet, his pupils flared. "You never looked at him the way you look at me."

She pulls her shift off her shoulders and Jon leans up to lick at a breast, the other he takes into his calloused hand. Sansa gasps at his touch, at the familiar heat coiling in her belly.

She rocks herself against him, her heat brushing against his hardness. Jon groans loudly as he lifts her and flips her onto her back, he tugs her shift completely off and she lays completely naked before her husband.

When he sinks into her, Sansa moans his name loud and clear. His breath is warm against her neck as his hips thrust against her and she pushes back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust. The sound of their lovemaking begins to fill the room, all the while the red comet soared the night sky. 

* * *

 

Minisa has grown quite fond of her cousins in the short time since they've been in Winterfell, she spends her days in the courtyard with Robb’s sons sparring with wooden swords. Argella never too far away.

Sansa watches from above as Minisa swings her wooden sword gracefully against Rickard.

"She moves like Jon," Her father commented as he stood beside her, watching his grandchildren.

Quick and graceful, Sansa thinks as Minisa’s shield comes up to block her cousin's wooden sword.

"She reminds me much of you though," Her father continues and Sansa brows furrow in confusion. "She may look like Jon, she even moves like him but she has your strength and compassion."

Minisa is her fearless little wolf, Sansa does not know where her youngest gets her strength but she is sure it is not from her.

"I am not strong," She whispers, and her father gives her a sad smile. She has not realised how much he has aged over the years, the weariness in his eyes reminds Sansa too much of Lyanna's last years.

"You are strong," Her father affirms, he takes her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze "You are the stronger than you know, Sansa."

"My lord," Maester Luwin calls to Lord Stark and Sansa turns to see the Maester behind her. "Pardon for disturbing you but a raven from King's Landing."

Her father frowned and Sansa stared at the raven scroll in the Maester's hand with a cold sense of weariness.

_Dark wings, dark words._

 

* * *

 

Jon departs for King's Landing at once to go to his ailing father, Sansa and the girls are to leave within a fortnight.

"You must tell him to be strong, that we love him," Lya's voice quivers and Sansa knows it must be hard for her the most. Lya has always had a unique bond with her grandfather. She tries to place her hand upon Lya's shoulder, to let her know she has her mother to lean upon, but Lya shakes her off. "You must tell him, Papa."

"Aye," Jon brushes a kiss against Lya's forehead, "Take care of your mother and sister."

Lya gives a slight nod and moves for Minisa to say goodbye to their father.

Their youngest jumps up into his arms, and Jon holds her tightly. He'll never say it aloud, but Sansa knows Minisa has always held a special place in his heart, his little wolf.

"It will only be a little while, right?" Minisa murmurs against her father's shoulder.

"Only a little while," Jon promises as he sets her down. He affectionately ruffles her hair before he moves on to Sansa. She has seen him off more than a dozen times since their marriage, but it never seems to get easier watching him ride away.

Jon kisses her gently, his fingers brushing against her cheek.

"I love you," She whispers once he pulls slightly away and Jon smiles, she knows he never tires of hearing her say it.

"I love you," He says back, and presses a quick kiss against her forehead before he turns away from her.

Minisa has tears in her eyes as she watches her father mount his horse, he glances back at them, raising his hand slightly before he kicks his heels and gallops out of the gates of Winterfell, his small party of ten following him.

Lya turns to head back into the keep, to her dragon but Sansa knows Minisa will not move until Jon is completely out of sight. She waits with her daughter.

* * *

 

It is when she is in Riverrun that Sansa remembers her moonblood did not come. She was so afraid to hope that even when the Maester her uncle Edmure sent to her confirms her suspicions, she still shook her head in disbelief. 

They told her that her womb would never quicken again with Jon's seed, they told her she was barren and that she would never birth another child.

"It is a miracle," The Maester smiled.

It is only later when she is in her mother's old chambers, her daughters asleep beside her that Sansa places her hand upon her belly and allows herself to silently release her tears of joy.

She has not begun to show yet, but inside her, a child grew.

* * *

 

 

Whatever illness has befallen King Rhaegar, it eats at him slowly and he becomes a shell of the man he once was.

"He has been like this for some time now," Jon Connington stands with her outside the King's chambers where the King asked to only speak to his son and heir alone. "He did not want his son to know there was anything amiss."

The King's Hand looks grief-stricken and pale, if Sansa did not know any better she would think the Lord of Griffin's Roost is dying along with his King.

"Have you sent for the King's brother and sister," Sansa knew Rhaegar had no love for his brother, but Viserys was still the King's brother, his blood.

"Prince Jon sent a raven a fortnight ago to Storm's End," Connington informs her, Sansa gives a short nod. "Viserys and Princess Arianne are expected to arrive by nightfall."

"And Daenerys?"

"The Princess is pregnant with her sixth child, Lord Tyrell sent a raven that she was too unwell to make the journey to the Crownlands."

Sansa placed her hand upon her own flat stomach, remembering how happy Jon was at their joyous news. He had fallen to his knees before her and kissed her stomach, not yet rounded by the prince or princess that grew inside her.

"A child is a blessing from the gods," Sansa professed, and recognition dawned on Lord Connington's face as his eyes flashed to her hand on her stomach.

The chamber doors open, and Jon, eyes red-rimmed walks toward her.

"He wishes to see you."

When she sits near his great featherbed, King Rhaegar holds his hand out and Sansa gently places her hand in his. His touch is icy cold.

"Jon tells me you are with child," He smiles, though it doesn't reach his lilac eyes. He looks pale and drawn, Sansa does not know how he has kept his illness from them for so long.

"You must save your strength, Your Grace," She squeezes his hand tenderly, "You have a grandchild to meet soon and the girls wish to see their grandsire better. I know Lya is anxiously awaiting for you to meet Branserion."

Tears shimmer the King's eyes, "Ziry kivio dārilaros Issa."

Sansa's brows furrowed in confusion as the King spoke in High Valyrian. Jon had tried to teach her some words over the years, she understood prince or was it, princess?

"When Elia gave birth to our secondborn, to Aegon," The King has a faraway look in his eyes as he remembers the son he lost so many years prior. "I said he was the prince who was promised but I was wrong."

Her stomach curdled uncomfortably as the King continued, "Lya was reborn amidst salt and smoke, she awoke a dragon from stone and the red comet blazed across the sky to herald her coming. She is the prince who was promised and her song is the song of ice and fire."

_Red for the fire your daughter has unleashed upon the world._

The King's breath grows ragged and his body convulses by a coughing fit, one that leaves him gasping for air. Sansa grabs the cup of water that the Grand Maester left beside his featherbed and helps the King raise it to his lips.

His voice is shaky as he says, "You must promise that no matter the birth of your child, Lya will be Queen. I have dreamt she will lead Westeros during the War of the Dawn, I have dreamt it."

"It is," Sansa hesitates, if a son is born, he will always have a stronger claim to the Iron Throne. Men's law declares Lya can only be Queen if Sansa gives birth to another daughter. "It is something you must ask of Jon."

"I have," The King is weary, "and he does not believe your children could ever cause another Dance of Dragons." 

* * *

 

  
_She dreamt of a realm that ran red with blood._

_A realm that burned with chaos._

_She dreamt of dragons dancing._

 

* * *

 

 

The day King Rhaegar died, Sansa knew nothing would ever be the same again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who left comments and kudos on the last chapter!


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